


Bergamot and Honey

by cerie



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-18
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:36:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerie/pseuds/cerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While reminiscing over old photographs, Helen tells Kate about a case she once worked alongside James Watson and the relationship between the two of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You slept with Sherlock Holmes?”

Helen looked up from the photo album and laughed, amused at how simplified that made it seem. She’d certainly slept with James more than once and Helen supposed that Doyle had infused his Sherlock with just enough James Watson to qualify Kate’s statement but she’d never actually looked at it quite that way. She was no Irene Adler, that was for certain. Not the way Doyle had written her, at any rate. Helen touched a letter, paper worn and crumbling along the edges. How long it’d been since she’d seen James, touched his face? Far too long.

“I had a relationship with James Watson. Quite a bit different, Kate. Of course, I did help him on a case once.”

Kate’s eyes gleamed and Helen leaned back in her chair, awash in memory as she began to speak about something that had passed so long ago that she couldn’t remember all the details in that strange, crystal clarity that James had in spades and Will seemed to be developing. Even still, she remembered enough.

~~~

“Strangest thing, Dr. Watson. One minute he’s fine and I brought him his cuppa and the next he was writhin’ around on the floor like that and now he’s gone.”

The maid was trembling and shaking, slim shoulders racked with sobs. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, give or take, and Helen couldn’t imagine how upset she must have been. Her master was an earl with holdings somewhere in Kent but this was the house he stayed in most; the earl had an excessive fondness of gambling in the London houses. It was there that James had met him and lightened his pockets considerably after ill-advised advice at the hazard table; James had been smoking opium earlier in the evening and, given his wide-known talents at the gambling houses, his advice had been heedlessly taken.

James knelt beside the body of the late Earl of Kent, fingers brushing against the man’s pale skin and tilting the head back and forth. His tongue was thick and swollen, lolling out of his mouth, and his eyes had rolled back into his head. His neck was at an odd angle, no doubt flinging wildly with the convulsions, and there was a half-spilt cup of tea on the side table. Helen could still hear the maid crying and she wet her lips before laying a gloved hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“We’ll look into it, all right? Nobody suspects you.”

Yet, anyway, but it seemed to calm the girl. Helen spoke to her quietly for a few moments and escorted her out of the room after extracting a promise that she wouldn’t flee should Scotland Yard want to question her. Innocent or no, the Yard would lock her away for the crime if she tried to escape their grasp. Helen knew that James needed the time to work before the police started interfering and she hoped vainly that nobody had sent for them just yet. Eventually, yes, but she wanted to gather as much evidence as she could before they started mucking it all up.

“Obviously cause of death is poison,” Helen said, kneeling beside James and peeling off her glove to do the examination herself. She was grateful, for once, for the mourning black she’d had to wear after John had disappeared. Should she get bodily fluids on it from the examination, the sturdy broadcloth likely wouldn’t stain permanently. Much better than the silk gown she’d been wearing the night at the opera when someone had shot the lead tenor with a pistol; that dress had been a complete casualty after the autopsy.

“Obviously,” James said, lips murmuring as he thought. Helen had seen him this way many times before, thoughts running faster than he could put them into proper words. Helen had always been a little envious of James’ intellect and intuition but she supposed she had her own talents that would manifest someday. Perhaps. If not, she was content enough to be James’ dogsbody, of sorts.

“My question is what sort? I suppose it’s the tea, but the heat of it would have degraded a good many poisons. If Mary hadn’t been the poisoner, who else would have access to the Earl’s tea? I can imagine it would have needed to be added while she was creaming and sugaring it, wouldn’t it?”

Helen was thinking out loud and stopped, watching as James reached for the abandoned teacup and sniffed. Many poisons weren’t traceable by scent alone; they wouldn’t be terribly effective as a poison if you could smell it before you ever ingested it, would they? Still, there was always a method to James’ madness and in this, Helen deferred. Perhaps they could get a lead to start the hunt before Scotland Yard started rounding up the servants for questioning.

“We’ll need to examine the tea leaves themselves,” James pronounced after a few long moments of silence. Helen hadn’t thought about that. Her thoughts had run to who might have slipped the poison in while the tea had been prepared but if there was some toxin introduced into the tea itself, it would absolve Mary and send them on a merry chase. Oh, Helen did hate a chase. She much preferred her mysteries to be linear and solved by examination of facts, not deduction.

“To the kitchens then,” Helen said gamely, leading the way through the parlor and down the servants’ stairs to the part of the house that polite company never saw. The kitchens were somber, cooks and maids and scullery boys all eerily quiet in light of the Earl’s death and Mary’s implication in it. Helen understood their upset well enough; the Earl had been a good employer and generous with wages so no matter their personal feelings about the man, his death meant a loss of secure income and a safe household.

“The Earl didn’t drink tea from the stores that the rest of the house did,” James explained, pushing back toward a little storage closet that Helen had some difficulty navigating given the rather large (yet fashionable) bustle on her dress. Perhaps if she was going to make a habit of traipsing around behind James on his capers, she ought to yield to practicality and leave her frippery at home. She managed to press in behind him, her head just over his shoulder, and for a moment Helen was struck by his clean, warm scent and the softness of his dinner jacket. Damn. John was just three years gone and she was already thinking about James? What sort of strumpet did that make her? She pushed it aside.

~~~

“Wait a minute. So he just jumps from the maid to the tea like that? That’s not just freaky eyeballs, that’s freaky.”

Helen laughed a little and nodded, tucking her hair behind her ear and flipping a page in the photo album, fingertips brushing against another photo. This was an old-style daguerreotype from when they’d first come into vogue. In those days, it took so long for the camera to capture the image and set it that most just opted to keep their faces set into stern lines as a smile was too hard to keep. This one, however, Helen must have been smiling at just the right time because there was a hint of a smirk curving her lips. James was stoic, as usual, but he could laugh when it suited. He had a fantastic laugh.

“James used to make deductive leaps that boggled everyone, Kate. It wasn’t uncommon for him to know every detail of a person from the perfume they wore to the wine they favored, right down to the year. It made him a bit of a lonely man, in the end, because not many people can withstand such scrutiny. This particular leap wasn’t so far-fetched. I imagine I would have come to it myself eventually.”

Kate gave her a dubious look and shifted to sit up. She’d been sprawling in the chair opposite Helen’s desk but now, it seemed, the position didn’t suit any longer. She offered a hand and tugged the album from Helen.

“Come on, Doc. Looks like this is gonna be a long story, so we might as well settle in for a while. Couch is gonna be more comfortable than your desk, right?”

Helen sighed, but Kate was right. Any story that involved James tended to run a bit long and this one was no exception. She eschewed Kate’s offered hand and carried album and teacup to the aforementioned couch, settling in on her usual side and laying the album between them.

“Now, where was I, exactly?”

Kate smirked. “You were just about to tell me how Dr. Sherlock made the jump from that obviously-guilty maid to some special tea in a closet. I ever tell you that you take way too long to get from point A to point B? I like to be direct.”

Helen rolled her eyes. “I’m well aware, Kate. Anyway, back to it. James and I were pressed in the closet, looking for the Earl’s tea.”


	2. Chapter 2

“So what tea does the Earl drink, if not what the rest of the house has?” Helen had long known that the best way to get James to include another party in his mental meanderings was to prompt him for responses. James turned and Helen rued once again that the closet was so small and she so damnably close to him. She backed against a shelf, knocking over a few things and cursing lightly. How completely absurd of her, to have gotten this flustered.

“He has his own blend with bergamot,” James explained, long fingers running over the tins before plucking one out that had a fragrant, citrus note beneath the traditional notes of black tea. He shook it lightly and Helen sighed a little in relief. If James had what he’d come in here for then perhaps she could get out of such close proximity and regain her wits. James gave her a quick smile and deftly dodged out of the closet before offering his hand to escort her. Helen took it, now vividly aware that she hadn’t replaced her glove after touching the body, and reveled in the feel of James’ warm palm against hers, his long fingers slid up against her own.

“Ah. I imagine he has to have that specially prepared then. We should look into where he gets his blend from, see if we can find some leads? I do hope this doesn’t wind us up in India. I don’t know how I’d explain it to my father that I abandoned his work to chase down some tea in a foreign country.”

James gave her a wry smile and the two of them went back into the parlor, only to be greeted by an inspector from Scotland Yard. It was Miller, who was a stocky sort of man rather reminiscent of a bulldog: doggedly determined and not terribly bright. He was thorough, Helen could give him that, but he was hardly the detective that James could be, even when the latter was coming off a three day binge of alcohol and opium. James had a long-standing rivalry with the man which was much compounded by the fact that he’d always beaten Miller in anything that mattered. Helen schooled herself into stoic lines and prepared for the inevitable sparks to fly.

“You know that when bodies are found it is your duty as a citizen under the Crown to call for a police inspector?”

Miller had a sort of wheezy, drawling voice that made Helen want to prescribe him a great deal of tea and some phenol for good measure. It was annoying to listen to on the short term and rather impossible to bear for the long term. James bore it little better than she did, his own opinions of the man colored by more than just his acoustically displeasing vocal tones. Miller nudged the body of the late earl with his boot, earning sharp looks from both Helen and James.

“There could be evidence there, man. Don’t do that,” James said, crossing the room to tug down a drape and lay it over the body. “I’d prefer it if you left the crime scene untouched while I’m doing my initial investigations. The key to his death could very well lay in this room or on that body and you’ve muddied it with dirt from the tracks, haven’t you?”

Miller’s eyes widened a little. Truthfully, he had come from the track and lost a good deal on a horse that was far from a sure thing and had been rather sore to be dragged out to investigate a poisoning late on a spring night when he could be chasing more pleasurable pursuits. Even less pleasurable was turning up at the crime scene to find Watson and his eccentric lady doctor traipsing about and making a general mess of things. Insanity all around.

“Neither here nor there. Have you questioned the staff? Cook tells me that a little maid was the last one to see the Earl alive. My bet’s that she’s the one what done it and we can all go home. Can’t account for them Scottish, not a bit. Can’t trust them.”

James exchanged a look with Helen and moved closer, using his height to intimidate. It didn’t work as well as when John Druitt had done it, but worked well enough; Miller looked sufficiently cowed for the moment.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. If you would like to question the staff, be my guest.”

Helen had to muffle her laugh with an ill-timed cough. It was so very James to back the police into the corner and take charge of the situation. She’d seen him do it during the Ripper investigation and it was no surprise to see it now. The only man he’d never really tried to cow was her father and, by extension, Helen. James always deferred to their judgment when it came to the classification and containment of dangerous Abnormals. While arrogant, James Watson was far from a stupid man.

Miller took that chance to retreat, making his way back into the kitchens to grill the staff and leaving Helen and James to their own devices. Helen imagined there wouldn’t be much left to examine within the crime scene itself; James seemed to think the poison hadn’t been added within the Earl’s house itself and he had palmed the tea tin in order to run his own tests. Helen suspected, after a closer examination, that they would find something deadly blended with the innocuous herbs and that would be their culprit.  
Six hours and two pots of her own tea later, Helen hadn’t found the answer. She had been certain there was something in the tea and had performed a physical examination long before giving up and testing chemically. Her workbench was strewn about with various botany books and sampling flasks and she was physically and mentally exhausted. Other than the addition of bergamot, it was no different than the blend Helen had in her own pot. Damn.

She tipped back the last, cold dregs of tea and wiped her mouth. A quick glance at her father’s clock called the time at half two and she was no closer to the answer than she’d been at half eight. She leaned forward, fingers rubbing tight circles over her temples, and startled when she heard the door open. James, she presumed, or her father, and Helen couldn’t be bothered to look up. Not with the headache she’d been nursing for most of the night and the damnable puzzle of the tea.

“You’re about to set fire to your father’s Linnaeus,” James said dryly, turning off her burner and setting it to the side before taking the stool next to her. Helen cast him a bleary eye and looked back down, trying to tamp down her headache through force of will. It wasn’t working. James tsked a little and worked on clearing away her things, putting them aside before settling back next to her.

“I suppose you didn’t find anything out of the ordinary in the Earl’s tea?” Helen shook her head without lifting it, honestly too tired to really discuss it. She hated the art of deduction, hated things that didn’t run linear. It was much easier to just do an autopsy and report her findings. This was James’ world, no matter how much she tried to shift her own mindset to follow it. Luckily, her own skills seemed to compliment his even if she didn’t tackle it the same way.

“Don’t fret, Helen. We’ll find it. I always love a good puzzle.” He laid a hand against her neck, fingers soothing out tensions and drawing a low, pleased noise from the back of her throat. It had been such a long and trying few hours and it had been even longer since she’d had such an intimate touch. Perhaps it was a bit stupid to be flushed and embarrassed over it, especially since she and John had shared a bed for a few months prior to his disappearance, but Helen couldn’t help but wonder if it was too soon, if it was wrong to take pleasure in this intimacy.

James seemed to care very little for propriety, shifting to lay both his hands against her shoulders and continue the massage. Helen let out another pleased noise and lifted her head, only to close her eyes and tip it back to rest against James’ stomach as he worked. Dear God, the man was amazing with his hands. How had she never noticed that before? At least in the intimate context; she had long known James was as skilled a physician as she.

“Did you find anything…wherever you went?” Helen’s voice was low and relaxed and James’ hands had done much to ease her tension. Small comfort, that, and maybe she could get back to her own work for a few hours before going to bed. Unlike James, who dabbled in Sanctuary affairs in his free time, it was Helen’s main project at the moment and she felt most fulfilled when working with Abnormals and alongside her father. James’ little cases were a pleasant puzzle to pass the time, but she’d never have any real passion for it.

“No, but I did satisfy a few lingering questions about Miller’s gambling habits. That’s neither here nor there.”

Helen snorted a little and shifted to sit up. Typical James, to have spent the evening pursuing some side quest when the real case sat unsolved. She couldn’t fault him terribly much for it, considering she’d been itching to get back to her own work all evening, and perhaps he’d just been waiting for her results with the tea before laying down any solid investigative work. Pragmatic. James could be pragmatic sometimes.

~~~  
“Tell me you slept with him.”

Helen narrowed her eyes at the flat, crass tone of Kate’s words and shook her head. Typical, being focused on the sordid aspects of her story and not the case itself. Perhaps her fascination with James and his intellect didn’t exactly translate to the modern woman; Helen had always been fond of a man who could think his way out of a puzzle instead of punching his way out. Always.

“Honestly, Kate. That is not the purpose of this. And no, I didn’t sleep with him that night. He took me up to bed and sat down in the parlor with father until dawn drinking brandy and playing cards. I didn’t particularly find that interesting, so I left it out.”

Kate snorted a little and settled in a lotus-style position on the couch, folded and completely casual with her surroundings. By contrast, Helen was still ramrod straight, one hand poised over her album. How woman had changed over the centuries and how Helen, in spite of years separating her from London until now, had really remained very much the same.

“Uh huh. I think you’re just dragging it out because you’ve got a romantic streak. Nothing wrong with that, doc, but you should have slept with him. I bet he would have went there.”

Helen supposed he would have, but it wasn’t meant to be that night. She shook her head and flipped the page, fingertips touching a faded calling card.

“Shall I continue?”

She took Kate’s smirk as a resounding yes.


	3. Chapter 3

There was no time for investigation the next day for both Helen and James were previously committed to a soiree at the house of one Lady Evelyn Crewe. Crewe so happened to be married to the late earl’s cousin, a dour-faced man who spent much of his time tending to family affairs back in Kent, so Lady Evelyn had her run of London Society.

Helen hated society, mostly because it reminded her that she was still supposed to be in mourning and, by extension, pitied. Only four other people knew the truth about what had happened with John and the rest believed he’d drowned in a boating accident. Helen was inclined to keep it that way in order to keep the more curious inquiries at bay and James had kept her silence. Nigel had made his way to America to search for John; last they’d read, someone of his description had murdered a few women in Chicago.

…and Nikola, it seemed, was currently the good lady’s newest fascination. As she and James entered Lady Evelyn’s private salon, he was sharing a couch with her and making and breaking the circuit of a small, electric light. Lady Evelyn, for her part, seemed perfectly delighted with Nikola’s parlor trick and Helen cut her glance to James, eyes clouded with annoyance. James laughed and tightened his grip on her elbow, escorting her to a couch on the far side of Nikola.

“About time you two showed up,” the other man drawled lazily, Serbian accent flowing over his words and lengthening his vowels sensually. Lady Evelyn laughed rather like a small, annoying bird and Helen sighed. It was going to be a long, tedious night, especially if she was going to have to watch Nikola stalk his prey over the dinner service. Lady Evelyn was a lofty prize; Nikola typically kept his dalliances to actresses and maids. Much easier to keep his reputation that way.

“We’ve been a bit busy,” James said, smirking a little even as he slid his hand against Helen’s. It was calming, in a strange way, and Helen let out a low sigh and relaxed a little. It was just supper and Nikola was, for the most part, someone she considered a friend. Granted, he could be a little more secretive about his new affinity for all things electrical, but Lady Evelyn was hardly bright enough to know that an electrical circuit couldn’t be conducted through one’s fingertips alone.

“Hope you don’t mean with research.” Nikola’s tone was deceptively light. Helen knew, if they had started a project without him, there’d be no end of whining on Nikola’s part. How dare they leave him in the dark! He was the greatest mind in half a century and had more finesse with electricity than that farce, Edison. No, it was a very good thing that she and James had not been concealing research from Nikola. Helen wondered how much they should tell him, though.

On one hand, Nikola could prove useful. His vampiric qualities lent him supernatural strength and speed and if their killer turned out to be of a violent bent, Nikola would give them an advantage. That said, Nikola was unstable at best, and like to jump to conclusions without thinking things through. She would defer to James for just this moment, unless he implied it was all right to reveal their hand. She hated playing second to a man, but at least James didn’t seem to think her tagging along meant she was anything less than an equal. The second that opinion changed was the second Helen quit taking the deferential position.

“No, no. Scotland Yard’s decided to let me sniff around their leavings again,” James said warmly, leaving Helen for a moment to pour himself a tumbler of brandy. Helen had a glass of wine herself, dry, and sipped at it cautiously as she watched Nikola leer at their hostess. He could honestly be more discreet, he a foreigner and she a married woman, but the maids milling around the room seemed to be casting a blind eye. Either it was old gossip, or Crewe paid extremely well.

The meal was tedious enough, Nikola feeding the good lady slivers of goose by his own hand, and he’d downed enough wine to put a serious dent in Crewe’s budget for at least a month or two. Helen had only two glasses, her limit in any situation as she had gotten drunk once at a party with the five and had spent the night violently ill. She’d planned to seduce John that night, even had a new chemise done up in a scandalous French pattern, and spent the night retching in a basin with John holding her hair. No, no more wine for her. No overindulgence.

But it was only after the meal and while James was pleasantly warmed from his brandy that he lazily suggested a game of forfeits to pass the evening. Helen wondered why the men didn’t just come out with it and say they just wanted to spend the night getting more and more lewd with one another but she supposed that, like anything to do with the tedium of parties and society, was meant to be shrouded in a few layers of false propriety.

Helen sighed as Nikola left the room and tried to decide what, exactly, to forfeit for the game. She settled on her comb, a lovely bit of ivory and jade her father had gotten from a recent trip to Shanghai, and placed it on the low table in the center of the room. James forfeited his watch and Evelyn, a amethyst brooch set in gold. That done, Nikola came back inside and grinned wickedly as he surveyed the table lain out with their small treasures. The game was more fun with a roomful of people, in theory, but with a small group more lascivious forfeits could be taken.

He plucked up the hostess’s brooch and twirled it in his fingers, drawing out his plans in some detail until Evelyn rose and laid a kiss against his cheek. Chaste, for Nikola, and Helen had to wonder what his game was. No matter, as James called the matter settled and announced another round, choosing to leave the room himself for this turn. Helen took her comb back and slid out one of her earrings to replace it, the pearl and gold glittering in the low light.

James came back into the room, his hands in his pockets as he looked over the table. This was really rather ridiculous with only three people, as the purpose of the game was to extend out the period of guessing and auctioning off objects until the proper owner begged and pleaded a chance to win it back, but Helen supposed that with enough alcohol, anything could be entertaining. His long fingers hovered over Nikola’s ring, nail tracing the monogram laid into the gold, before snatching up Helen’s earring instead.

“What would you have me forfeit, James? That’s my mother’s earring.”

Helen, in truth, wasn’t terribly invested in the game. She found it a bit silly to play like children like this when she could be working, but James had a gleam in his eye that promised no small amount of trouble. He drew closer to her, tucking her earring into the pocket of his vest before taking her hands and tugging her up from her seat. Helen wasn’t a small woman, she fairly towered over the dainty Lady Evelyn, but James was taller still.

“I’d have a kiss, Helen Magnus.” His eyes shone with amusement and affection and his breath was warm and soft against her cheek. Helen closed her eyes, flushed hot at the idea that James would act out so in front of Crewe and her staff. It would be one thing if they were playing the game in her parlor, just amongst themselves, but quite another to do so in a semi-public place.

“Not here,” she hissed, cracking one eye open to see Nikola and Evelyn perched on the edge of their couch, the two of them eager as schoolboys getting their first glimpse at a French postcard. Honestly. This was hardly the time or place to be getting all worked up over…

Helen’s thoughts scattered like grains of sand from a broken hourglass as James pressed his mouth to hers. For a split second, she fell into the kiss, lips parting and a small, pleased noise rising up in her throat. James took it as encouragement and slid his hands, which had been at her shoulders, down to encircle her waist. It had been months since she’d kissed anyone, it’d been since John, and Helen was fairly certain she was entirely out of practice. James’ lips were warm and soft and his whiskers scraped pleasantly against her skin. He tasted of brandy and something inexplicably him, layered and complicated and blended in a perfect concert as complex as any of his theories.

The moment was only broken by Nikola’s conveniently-timed cough and Helen extricated herself messily, running hands over her hair and smoothing her skirts in order to regain some measure of composure. James looked sufficiently pleased with himself and Helen gave him a sharp look, surprised he’d press his advantage.

“Well done, James,” Nikola said, looking a little pinched for his part. Helen had to wonder if Nikola’s intentions had run in the same direction and he, having gone first, didn’t think it was appropriate to press for that much. She couldn’t say. Her brains were still addled and her pulse still quick from the surprise of the kiss. She cleared her throat, seeking to regain control of the situation.

“With that, I do believe I’ll be taking my leave. James and I do have a project we’re working on and we’ll need to start our work quite early tomorrow morning.”

James’ mouth was still set in a smirk but, to Helen’s relief, he nodded. Apparently even through brandy induced lapses of judgment, James still knew just how far to push. He gathered her cape and his own cloak before taking her arm, escorting her back to his carriage for the ride home. Lady Evelyn was still laughing with Nikola when they left, their voices low and sibilant as Helen quickened her already brisk pace down the walk. She waited until they were inside the carriage before turning to James, face hot with embarrassment and anger.

“What on Earth did you mean by that little display, James Watson?”

James laughed and rubbed her hand lightly through her glove. His smile softened, something more sincere than it’d been inside the house, and he slid his hand up to brush against her cheek and tuck an errant curl back into her chignon. Helen relaxed a little in spite of herself, posture not quite so rigid with rage.

“I meant to kiss you, Helen Magnus. It seems I succeeded in that lofty endeavor.”

Helen tsked a little and turned away, watching the London streets pass by from the cool glass of the carriage window. She was less angry than before, but only fractionally, and she really didn’t understand why he insisted on ruining her reputation along with his own. He was a bachelor. Such displays were tolerated, even encouraged. On the other hand, she was practically a widow and a spinster to boot. She couldn’t afford the tarnish.

“And what of my earring?”

James smirked a little, pulling out the little pearl and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

“I didn’t get to finish my kiss. It’s forfeited, for now.”

Oh, honestly.


	4. Chapter 4

Helen spent most of the next day languishing in bed with a rotten headache and she presumed she should blame James for that. It had been his decision to go to Miss Crewe’s party, after all. Still, it was the late hour and not the wine that had set Helen’s head to spinning and she imagined much of the headache was due to James’ behavior (deplorable) and not much to do with her own overindulgence.

As it was, she felt only slightly guilty about taking breakfast and luncheon in her bed and only making her way down for supper well after the maid had cleared away her father’s dishes and set things away for the evening. A quick check of her father’s clock indicated it was half nine, much too late for eating, and Helen knew she likely wouldn’t be sleeping this evening. Not at any decent hour, anyway.

It turned out to be just as well when James came round at around midnight to round her up for more investigating. For some reason, it seemed, he felt like their best course of action would be to question all of the late Earl’s friends and that required a trip to James’ favorite gaming club. It was a bit abnormal for a woman to frequent a gaming club unless she intended to conduct business on her back but she trusted that news of the investigation had gotten around and that her reputation would be more or less untarnished. Helen certainly wasn’t trying to debut or have a season, certainly, but she’d like to keep the gossip to a bare minimum.

“What does a woman of class wear to such an establishment anyway, James? If you have any designs on dressing me like a strumpet, you are sorely mistaken. I will be nothing but the lady that I am.”

Perhaps it was a bit indignant but James’ laugh made Helen that much _more_ indignant. Just because she was a spinster and a scientist didn’t mean she went about flouting in the face of every social tradition and trying to be a proper woman was hard when one’s friends were (mostly) male and mostly bachelors. Nikola’s reputation alone was enough to stain hers by association even without frequenting gaming clubs.

“I suspect anything you wear will suit but if you wanted to be a bit more flash and dare, I don’t think it’d go amiss. You should wear something in blue, though, suits your eyes.” Helen had thought the same, actually, regarding the color blue but the idea that James had been paying enough attention to know what sorts of dresses he wanted her wearing was incredibly flattering. Dangerously so.

“I’ll go pull the taffeta out, I suppose, if you can assure me that I won’t end up in a fight to defend my own honor at some point? I’d really rather be wearing trousers if you think we’ll end up in fisticuffs.” Helen brightened at that, actually, and smiled a bit. There was a novel idea - wearing trousers throughout the course of an investigation instead of stifling dresses and corsets.

“Do you think I could-” Helen barely got half the sentence out before James’ finger had pressed over her lips, warm and just a bit rough. His hands smelled of brandy and cigars and while it might have been unpleasant with someone else, it was always a comforting smell to Helen, a smell that was James and James alone.

“None of that. While I hardly care what you wear on a daily basis I’m fairly certain you’re going to be sending all the wrong ideas out if you traipse about in trousers. Besides, I don’t think the population of London could bear to see that much of your form. You’re so lovely...we’d all got into arrhythmia trying to get over the notion of you in trousers. Dresses it will be, preferably that blue one, and if you could make quick work of it so we can get a move on? I want to start questioning the Earl’s acquaintances before they’re so deep in their cups that we can’t get anything coherent from them.

Flattery seemed to be on James’ agenda for the evening and Helen extricated herself before he could get her any more worked up. There was a case afoot, after all, and she didn’t want to be seen as an empty-headed woman when she was just as if not more capable than the majority of detective inspectors in the entire city. Probably not so good as James, no, but that hadn’t been her gift from the Source blood either.

She splashed a bit of water on her face from the washbasin and smoothed down errant curls with a bit of lavender water before stepping into her gown. She had her corset still on from earlier, of course, but her lady’s maid had long since gone to bed and the row of delicate mother-of-pearl buttons down the back of the gown was simply too much for her to manage alone. Stifling a sigh at the mere cliche of it (and, really, her life was quite often a penny dreadful with a few more exciting bits thrown in here and there), she stuck her head out the door to call James in.

“Could I trouble you to play lady’s maid for the moment? I can’t do my buttons up. My other dress didn’t have any and I managed to just pop it over my head,” Helen explained. Really, this was why she was going to start lobbying for trousers this instant. Men could get dressed with little to no help from their valets, if they wanted, and Helen envied that greatly. It would really do quite a bit toward liberating women, even if it seemed like such a small thing.

“Funny, I typically end up undoing these at the end of the night, not doing them up. You really do have to be contrary at every hour, don’t you?” Helen could say the same, honestly, but she held her tongue in hopes that it would go quickly if she didn’t quip right back at him. Investigation, busy, no time for clever and witty repartee.

Helen wished there was, though, because it felt nice to have his hands at her back even if it was simply to do up her buttons. His fingers were deft and he made quick work of it, leaning in and pressing a small kiss at the back of her neck when he was done. That wasn’t necessary, at all, and Helen hoped her cheeks weren’t flaming when she turned back around to look at him and smooth down the front of her dress.

“Are you quite finished, then? I’d rather like to get a move on with this investigation before all our leads have dried up.” James laughed and shook his head and while she might normally have troubled herself to ask him what he found so damned amusing, she suspected it would just infuriate her further. He was after something, James Watson, and Helen wasn’t entirely sure she was ready to provide said something to him.

She was still practically a widow, for one thing, and the hole left in her heart by John Druitt hadn’t quite healed over the years. He had been her first love, her only love, and while the betrayal had ensured she wouldn’t be taking him back (even if he did show up) the wounds he left weren’t something so easily healed by anger and hate. It had festered, if anything, and left her incapable of seeking out that sort of companionship with someone else.

James, up until his recent shenanigans regarding kissing, had been something of a safe harbor for her. He was a trusted friend, someone who loved her for her intellect and her strength and not because she was beautiful and Helen had relaxed, somewhat, and let him in. He’d pressed his advantage swiftly enough the evening before but unlike other men who’d tried, she hadn’t really minded. On the contrary, she wanted it to happen again and again. It was merely the fear of losing his friendship, something so precious she couldn’t imagine finding it again in ten thousand years, that stayed her hand. She and John had been friends once, after all, and it’d all gone pear-shaped.

These thoughts had her quiet in the coach from her home to the gaming club and James, to his credit, seemed inclined to let her stew with her melancholy instead of poking at her to talk. He did take her hand in his, though, and rubbed the back of it with his thumb idly as they moved through the streets. Such a simple gesture, that, especially considering he’d kissed her the evening before but somehow this felt more dangerous; James Watson could get under her guard easier than any man she’d ever encountered since John and the heart she’d so carefully guarded these long years seemed to be melting.

It was a conundrum, that, and furthermore, it was a dangerous one. Helen made a promise to herself not to succumb so easily to a few pretty words and soft gestures and while she didn’t suspect James had ulterior motives (he was no Nikola) it would only be wise to keep herself safe and guarded to avoid losing the best friend she’d ever had. What John had done to all of them had been horrific and losing him...she couldn’t bear to lose James too, especially not over something so silly as the romantic trials of a spinster.

As the carriage rolled to a stop, she turned slightly and flashed James the cheekiest grin she could summon.

“Shall we play at being someone else, for the evening? I can’t imagine it will last very long, considering we’re nearly infamous but it would be rather fun for a bit, wouldn’t it?”

James smiled, warm and sweet, and shook his head. “Honestly, Helen, the only role I’d let you play with me is wife and I doubt highly I’d ever bring my wife to something so scandalous and base as this club. Be Helen for me and I’ll be James?”

Simple words, really, but they warmed her from head to toe. Helen tamped that down and busied herself with thinking about what questions to ask in the club lest she lose her train of thought and end up begging James to take her home so she could beg him for other things. It was dangerous, idiotic, and stupid, that line of thought, and it would only end up hurting them both.

Investigation. Murder. The Earl. That was what she was focusing on for the moment because those things, at least, had a set course and set direction. The tension that lay between she and James Watson most assuredly did not.


	5. Chapter 5

“Did the Earl have anyone he wasn’t on good terms with?”

Helen sometimes wondered how, exactly, James managed to be known as one of the finest detectives in all of England when he was about as subtle as a brick wall but she supposed, in a way, being direct had its charms. It did put a most curious pallor on Lord Balcraft’s face, though, and even Helen could note that he seemed a bit disturbed by the question. As far as the usual society scuttlebutt went, the Earl of Kent was a peculiar man but not unliked and the idea that someone might want him dead was very strange indeed.

“No, not that I know of. Everyone liked him, staff, the boys at the club...can’t say anyone would want to do him harm.”

That’s what they always said in situations like this and Helen tried to keep her own disbelief from mucking up the works. Someone must have wanted him dead or, otherwise, the earl wouldn’t _be_ dead but this was James’ arena and not her own. She settled instead for a quick smile, hopefully reassuring, and contemplated whether or not her neckline was too low.

James had insisted that it was perfectly proper for a woman of ill-repute but Helen wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a detriment to her person. The Lord Balcraft seemed to be looking, anyway, and as much as Helen wanted to be annoyed about it she wasn’t above using her dubious charms to further her work. She just never imagined this would be the charm or the work, though.

“And his accounts? I’ll like to see his accounts here at the club and see if I can find any discrepancies.” Money always motivated a murder even outside of passion and from what Helen could tell, the Earl of Kent wasn’t much for passion. Money, however, he seemed to have loads of and everyone liked to have more than they were born with. Helen was lucky in that regard, her father was wealthy, and she hadn’t any marriage prospects anyway. So long as she had accounts suitable to fund her research, she was content, and Helen had that and plenty to spare for other, more frivolous things.

“I would like to examine the books, yes. Might there be a private room we could have for that?” Balcraft seemed to realize that she was sitting there in that moment and his eyes went wide, not unlike a toad. Ah. So when spotlight was thrust upon her, it seemed it was no longer acceptable to leer at her like some bird with particularly fine plumage. Ah, double standards.

“If you and your companion would like a room for the evening, we could arrange that, yes.” Helen spoke up to protest, she was _not_ his companion in that sense, but James silenced her with a look. He was up to something and wanted, desperately, in the back rooms of the club and apparently her agreement in the matter was paramount. She didn’t particularly care for that, no, but she imagined being engaged to John Druitt and traipsing about after Abnormals had already ruined what bit of a good reputation she already had. Hell, handbasket, might as well go all in.

“We won’t need the whole night,” James assured the man and Helen’s look could cut glass. Not only must she pretend to be his...mistress, for lack of a better term, now she wasn’t even worth a whole night in a rented room? Really? It said something that this offended her. Perhaps the lady doth protest too much but Helen tamped that down in favor of putting on a cheeky smile that she didn’t really feel.

“No, I’ve always been a quick study and James, well, he does everything quickly. Come along, let’s get the business bit over with so we can have a couple hours of fun, yeah?” It wasn’t her accent and James’ eyebrow looked like it was about to climb right into his hair but he slid his arm tightly around her waist and nodded, leading her back into the rooms for rent. They were...nice, in a way, but not something Helen ever wanted to see again.

“What on earth do you want back here anyway, James?”

He seemed amused, smirk playing at his lips, and he pressed a finger to her mouth shortly before there was a sharp rap at the door. It was Balcraft, with a sheaf of papers and some sort of contract which James signed in a messy scrawl. Helen didn’t want to think about _what_ that might have been about but soon the door was shut and James had a gleam in his eye which could only mean he was onto something. Helen would just be glad when he let her in on the secret.  
“What _is_ it, James? And what on earth did you just sign?”

James pushed the contract toward her and Helen wished she hadn’t asked. Contract for the room and, it seemed, _her_ for the evening. Apparently the house took a cut even when the lady wasn’t on staff. She rolled her eyes and pushed it back toward him, drawing closer so she could get a look at the financial records he’d requested.

“I think I’m quite put out you’ve only paid such a paltry sum for my company and the room for the evening,” Helen said, rolling her eyes before focusing on the actual case before them. She knew they must be looking for discrepancies, for large debts, for something that might indicate that the Earl needed to die. Money was a huge motivator in such crimes, sometimes even more so than passion.

What she found, however, was nothing of real note. If anything, the Earl was quite good at playing the tables and there were no significant losses of any sort over the past few months. There were some very good evenings, though, and several evenings when he’d hired a room such as this one, and the company of another young woman.

It was a necessary evil, prostitution, and while Helen thought it simply fueled a society in which women would always be oppressed she supposed it served a necessary role; men would always have urges and highborn ladies weren’t meant to fulfill those. She had no doubts John had frequented ladies of the evening even before he started killing them and while it bothered her, there was no helping it. Perhaps it would have stopped when they married but Helen couldn’t say. That chapter of her life was most assuredly closed.

“What we’ve found is someone else to question,” James pointed out, drawing his finger beneath one of the entries where the Earl had hired a room for the night. “Men always tell their mistresses things that they’d never tell their wives and there’s always the chance that if this was the same woman each and every time, she had a motive to see him dead. A jilted lover always has strong motivation to see someone done in.”

Logical, yes, and while Helen was inclined to find money a better motivation than love she knew passion could drive a man insane. It had been John’s passions that drove him to kill, and violently, and all this talk about prostitutes and murder had him more on her mind than she ever cared to have him again. Still, she would focus on the case before them and not her own personal problems.

“Is there any way we could find her name? A description? They’re fairly tight-lipped around here.” James nodded, agreeing. It would be difficult to get them to cough up the name, certainly, but the staff might not have nearly so many scruples as the owners and the gentlemen who brought their business there. Besides, she and James were wealthy enough to make it worth their while.

Helen had opened her mouth to suggest that very thing when there was another knock at the door. James tugged her close, pressing his mouth against hers and his hands roamed at the back of her dress in a way that Helen hadn’t experienced since John and a coat closet during an opera almost ten years prior. Dear _God_ , what was he doing? Covering for something, she assumed, but it was simply too hard to think when James had his lips on hers and his mouth tasted of brandy and the pipe he favored.

The door swung in just as James pushed down the front of her dress and Helen tried to tamp down her natural reaction to blush and cover herself. A hired woman wouldn’t be shy about her body, certainly not during a job, and even though she couldn’t keep her cheeks from staining bright red she could, at least, be brazen about it. There was a chuckle from whoever had walked in on them and James pulled his mouth away to look: Balcraft.

“Nice trick that one’s got, blushing like a bride. Might be good work for you here, if you were interested.”

Helen opened her mouth to protest but no sound came out. Instead, it was James who spoke, voice only slightly breathless from having kissed her. The nerve. She was almost out of her head at the moment and of course he’s calm as anything. He was always calm. Not even being caught _in flagrante delicto_ seemed to have ruffled his feathers. Hers, on the other hand, were quite ruffled.

“She’s not for hire. She’s my personal mistress and I’ll thank you to leave me to our business. I won’t have an audience.”

Balcraft tugged the door shut, sufficiently cowed, and Helen tugged up the front of her dress while she glared daggers at him. Honestly. _Honestly._ He was worse than Nikola of late and she really, really wanted to know what game was afoot that he kept kissing her in the most inappropriate of situations.

“Care to explain that? Now half of London is going to think I warm your bed for what is, in fact, an abysmally low fee. If I’m to be kept, I’ll have a proper income. You could at least do me that courtesy.”

James laughed, rich and warm, and brushed his hand back against her cheek. “My dear, sweet Helen. Only you would be worried that you didn’t command a high enough price. Rest assured, mistress mine, you have no sum lower than my heart, should you want it, and all the benefits and titles that such a lofty position implies.”

It really didn’t answer any questions at all but at the moment, Helen was more focused on getting dressed and trying to explain the inevitable rumors to her father.

 _That_ was going to be absolutely pleasant, wasn’t it?


	6. Chapter 6

“Okay, so, wait. You’ve got Earl guy who might be banging someone on the side,” Kate said, breaking the spell that Helen had gone under while remembering the early days of navigating a relationship with James Watson. It’d been so long ago, the two of them, and it felt good to share it with someone even if said someone wasn’t the person she was closest to in the world. Kate had been a captive audience, at least, even if she did have...interesting questions and commentary.

“Why not question everyone while you were pretending to be a hooker? They’d be more likely to talk to you than someone stuffy like Watson...” Helen cut her a sharp look and Kate trailed off, sheepish look on her face. She’d never actually seen sheepish on Kate before and, truthfully, it did not become her.

“Not a hooker, a mistress, and no. James had reason to believe we needed to investigate the Earl’s estate in Kent rather than continue the investigation in London. Those at the club wouldn’t talk for fear of retribution and he wanted out from under Scotland Yard’s thumb,” Helen explained. “So we ended up going to the country to see if we could determine the reason behind a few...discrepancies in the Earl’s accounts, namely, why he didn’t have a will readily available.”

***

The idea to go to the countryside was half-formed, at best, and Helen was cross that James was dragging her out of town when her father was certain to need her for his work. Gregory was no help either when she tried to appeal to his traditional side - surely an unmarried woman did not need to be traveling in the company of a bachelor, yes? Wrong. Gregory was perfectly fine with the two of them traveling together, society be damned.

So it was a very petulant Helen that was packing for an indefinite trip to the English countryside and she was certain James was laughing about the whole thing even if he didn’t let it show on his face. Being a man, it was hardly the ordeal for him to pack that it was for her and he’d settled in a chair in her private sitting room while she flitted back and forth through wardrobes and drawers to pick out what she wanted to take.

“Truly, Helen, you need not bring everything you own. It will be a few weeks, at worst, and a few days at best. We’ll be back before you know it.” Helen rolled her eyes, completely unbecoming, and pulled out the drawer that contained every single nightgown she owned. Not wanting James to be looking (or assessing, as she suspected the case may be at this point) she just dumped them indiscriminately into a trunk. Time to sort them later.

“And I’ve no idea of knowing where you’ll drag me off to so I’d rather be prepared, thank you,” Helen said stiffly. James got up from his chair and crossed the room, plucking one of her nightgowns from the trunk to hold it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. Helen felt her brows knitting in consternation, absolutely annoyed, but if this was the worst he’d do today, she’d be able to take it.

“This is silk, Helen. High quality, likely from Paris given the design. It’s a few years old, though, which tells me this is something you either purchased yourself to wear for John or, in fact, John may have purchased it for you. It has to be from John because a stylish woman such as yourself would never keep such outdated fashions. You clean your closets out twice a year and fill them with new. Am I correct?”

Helen flushed, hot, and snatched the gown from his hand. He knew John was a sore subject with her on the best of days and to bring _that_ up, of all things, was completely uncalled for. James Watson had to be the most infuriating man she’d ever made acquaintance with and Helen would be glad when he’d simply just _stop_ assessing her and let her be, especially when it came to John.

“You’re an ass, James. If you absolutely must know, he did buy it for me, and I wore it for him the first time we made love. And yes, I kept it, because I’m a bloody fool when it comes to John Druitt and I loved him. I might even still love him, as much as I hate him, and it’s a dichotomy of feeling that I will thank _you_ to leave well enough alone. He hurt me, badly, and that’s all you need to know.”

James, at least, had the decency to look contrite after her outburst and Helen packed the rest of her things in silence. She was silent as the coach drew up, too, and she shrugged off his assistance when he tried to help her in and got her skirts caught on the wheels for her troubles. Still, once in the coach, she occupied herself with a particularly troublesome needlepoint and kept at it even when the hour grew late and the light too dim to do a proper job. It was only after the third or fourth time that she’d jabbed herself with the needle that James reached out a hand to clasp around her wrist.

“Bloody hell, Helen, you’ve made your point. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk to you about John, and I’m sorry, but I simply...I made advances toward you as well, in those days, and I never really understood what made you choose him over me. It’s petty and I shouldn’t play with painful memories that way, especially not when it hurts you.” James drew her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it before kissing each of her fingers, sucking lightly on the one she’d pricked with the needle.

“Just...just leave me alone, James. I don’t want to be one of your little puzzles and I won’t suffer you to continue to toy with my emotions for your amusement. I’m a human being with a human heart and while you might be above the trappings of love and romance, I’m not. Stop manipulating me into wanting something with you that I’m simply not meant to have again. Just...just stop.”

Helen turned, then, drawing her hand away and curling into her corner of the coach to try and take a nap while they traveled over roads more roughshod than they’d been in London. The Earl’s estate was only a day’s travel from London by coach but they’d gotten a late start and wouldn’t arrive late that evening, almost morning. It was some time later when Helen awoke and realized she’d shifted in her sleep (or had been moved, which was equally likely). James had her drawn against his chest, her head pillowed against his shoulder, and his arm around her. It was nice, nicer than Helen wanted to admit to, and she curled back against him to sleep for the rest of the trip.

They arrived at half three and Helen stumbled from the coach bleary eyed. She was grateful James seemed to have his wits about him, at least, and managed to have their luggage sorted and brought up to a room as well as dealing with securing the room himself. Room, singular, because there were no others to be had in this particular inn and Helen had tried to protest and had it rendered null when she practically fell asleep standing up. James wrapped his arm around her waist to escort her upstairs and the maid giggled a bit, earning a sharp glance from Helen.

“He’s a good sort, ma’am, you should keep him. Very concerned about you getting some sleep, he is, and that’s a sight better than some of these husbands I’ve seen before. I’ll bring you a tray up in the morning after you’ve had a chance to rest.”

Helen was too tired to protest the husband bit, imagining that it had been a ruse on James’ part to keep them from any unnecessary scandal. She settled on the edge of the bed to tug off her boots while James spoke with the maid, pressing a few coins into her hand for her troubles and getting a gasp and a shocked, “Mr. Holmes, you shouldn’t have!” Holmes. Hmm. So they were Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, whoever they were, and Helen imagined James could just fill her in tomorrow morning after she’d slept.

James pressed the door shut and turned the key in the lock before crossing the room. Before she could really react, he cupped her cheeks and kissed her forehead softly, a gentle, tender gesture that elicited emotions in Helen that she hadn’t had in years. Dangerous emotions. Emotions that had, once, given her both the greatest joy in her life and the greatest sorrow.

“James, please. Don’t. I meant what I said earlier and I’m not your game. I’m not your puzzle and I’m not going to do this only for you to tire of me once I let you into my bed and the chase is done. I am not that woman and I will never be that woman so I would appreciate it if you’d just leave me alone. Be my friend, which is what I so desperately need, and stop this nonsense.”

James tsked lightly under his breath and kissed first her cheek, then slid his kisses along her jaw to her ear. His breath was hot and his whiskers scratched her skin in a way that wasn’t wholly unpleasant. Neither were his words and that, perhaps, shocked her more than anything else.

“Helen, darling. You could never be anything _but_ that woman, _the_ woman, the only one who fascinates me enough that I’ve set myself into pursuit of you. You’ve always been the woman, even before John, and I most certainly am not toying with you. This isn’t some game to get a widow into bed with me. This is about me and my heart, which is most assuredly yours, and will continue to be yours even if you never accept it of me. Please forgive me for letting you think for even a moment that this was anything but sincere. Forgive me?”

With his words hot and heavy against her ear like that, Helen couldn’t do much but nod her head. She was tired and fraught with emotion, two things she hated, and the one thing she hated most in the world was crying. She tried valiantly _not_ to cry, of course, but the long day and the stress of travel had broken her down, not to mention being on the outs with James who was, in fact, her dearest friend and confidante. He was quiet and simply tugged her against him, wrapping his arms around her, but after a few minutes, he tipped her face up and brushed the tears from her eyes with a sweep of his thumb.

“Forgive me? Please?” Helen had already told him, albeit without words, that she’d forgiven him but James seemed unsure for the first time in, well, ever. Helen took a chance, then, and pressed her lips to his. Every other time they’d kissed, he’d initiated it, and this was different somehow because she led the dance and it was his mouth that went soft and pliant beneath hers.

Helen slid her hands between them and worked on the buttons of his waistcoat. She managed one before he stopped her, pulling his mouth away, and his eyes were intense as he looked down into hers. Helen wasn’t entirely sure what had happened but this apology from him had done a lot to ease her apprehensions about going to bed with him and she was hardly a virgin and far from shy about her body when it was someone she loved. She wasn’t certain, just yet, but she thought perhaps she _did_ love him.

“No. If we do this, we do it right, and I won’t have you taking the lead so you can keep from feeling anything. I want you feeling anything and everything and I want you to share it with me,” James said lowly, turning her so he could unhook the long row of buttons that went down the back of her gown. As he worked the first few free, he kissed along the nape of her neck and it was something so intimate that Helen couldn’t help but tremble a bit. She hadn’t, since John, and it was less out of propriety and more out of simply not being willing to risk her heart again.

James finished with the buttons and pushed her gown off her shoulders and pushed at the fabric to get it past her hips so she could step out of it. Standing there in nothing but corset, chemise and petticoat was disarming, to say the least, and she wished if they were going to do this that he’d given her a chance to prepare. She’d have worn something fine for him, taken her hair down, worn perfume and perhaps even a bit of rouge. As it was, she was travel-worn and bedraggled, her hair in disarray, and felt possibly the furthest from beautiful she could possibly be.

James undid her stays efficiently and Helen tried to resist the urge to clutch her arms around her chest when the corset slipped loose to the floor. The rest was simple to deal with, just petticoat, chemise and drawers, and Helen was more than a bit shy about being naked in front of him when he hadn’t taken anything off at all. James watched her in a way that John never had, eyes evaluating and assessing every curve. It was unnerving, completely unnerving, and Helen wasn’t normally shy but she averted her eyes and blushed anyway, unused to the scrutiny. She crossed her arms over her breasts.

“James, please...you’re making me nervous. I don’t like feeling like a specimen under a looking glass.”

James nodded instead of making further comment and undressed himself, much more quickly than he’d undressed her. Once that was done, though, he drew her down to the bed and covered her, working one thigh between hers as he leaned in to kiss her. It was different, certainly, kissing this way and while John had, in fact, kissed her before on numerous occasions, he never took his time with it the way James was now. It was a study in numerous and infinite variations, each more subtle than the last, and Helen felt like a wave about to crest merely from the attentions of his mouth to hers. There were other things James could do, that she hoped he would do, but for now the exquisite feeling of his skin against hers and his cock hard against the smooth skin of her hip while he kissed her tenderly...that was enough.

He shifted, suddenly, and Helen made a small sound of protest until she realized he’d simply shifted down so that his mouth was teasing her breasts. He started with the left, tongue tracing a slow spiral around her nipple to coax it into a hard peak before he took it into his mouth and teased with teeth and tongue. It was still impossibly gentle, though, everything, and it was driving her mad. She wanted more, preferably soon, and she decided to simply be bold and press one hand behind his head to push him down so he’d simply give her more. James chuckled against her, his whiskers scraping her skin, and he kissed her skin lightly before moving to the other breast to give it the same, exacting attention. Helen should have known his attention to detail would be both a blessing and a curse.

“Please, James,” Helen whimpered, voice low and keening and practically begging. James looked up, then, about halfway to her navel, and quirked one brow in amusement. She should have known he’d be difficult about the whole thing, really, and she tried not to huff in frustration. That’d simply get her nowhere fast, wouldn’t it?

“Please what, darling? You know I don’t like to be rushed in most things but certainly not this. There’s an art,” he murmured, tongue trailing a lazy circle around her navel before he shifted to kiss her left hip. “A finesse, if you will. They say the Indians have a book of over a thousand ways to make love to a woman and spend decades studying the art.” He sucked lightly, teeth scraping against her hipbone, and Helen arched beneath him. Damned, infuriating man. “I could be persuaded to spend decades studying you. I already have one beneath my belt. What’s two or three more, hmm?”

Helen hissed sharply and tugged at his hair when he paid the same attentions to her right hip and dragged two fingers through the damp curls between her thighs. Nobody had touched her there save for herself since John and she was simply too worked up to be ladylike or elegant about the whole thing. Sex wasn’t something meant to be ladylike anyway, not when the way two bodies came together was messy and, perhaps to someone outside the act, altogether undesirable. James pressed first one, then another finger inside her, leaving them still so she could adjust, and he drew his tongue along her skin in a slow line to where her hip and thigh joined.

Helen drew in a sharp breath when he crooked his fingers and drew them against her in such a way that made her want to pant and squirm and beg. It only got worse when he lazily drew his thumb across her clitoris as he pumped his fingers and she twisted her hips up, wordlessly begging for more. It felt so good, building up that way, and she whimpered when he drew his fingers away. She wanted to ask why he’d stopped but she was terribly afraid she’d sound needy and desperate so she held her tongue and, for once, she was glad she did.

James sealed his mouth over her, then, and Helen slid her hand down to press his face against her, wanting to feel the way his beard scraped her thighs and the way his tongue slid through her folds and how he used his lips to suck and tease and draw it out. What little the fire had died when he’d moved his hand was irrelevant because now she was burning brighter and hotter and instead of teasing, James had settled for a full-on assault to her senses instead.

 _He must know how close I am,_ Helen thought briefly before close became there and she tumbled over the edge. He kept his mouth on her, albeit lighter than before, while she came down and she drifted her fingers lightly through his sweat-damp hair as he finished bringing her down from the orgasm. It was so different with another person, so nuanced, and Helen wondered how she ever thought she might go the rest of her life with just her own hand. Stupid notion, that, and she was glad James had cured her of that nonsense.

As he slid back up her body, James kissed her in a lazy, haphazard pattern that did not seem to make much sense except, perhaps, to him. He hesitated once he was laying flush against her again and parted her thighs. “You’re certain?” he murmured and she nodded in response, spreading her legs that much wider. He drew one of her legs over his hip and pressed his cock against her entrance, sliding and teasing.

“You’re driving me mad,” Helen protested, kissing him harshly and tasting herself on his mouth, an unusual if not utterly arousing experience in and of itself. She rocked her hips upward so he slid into her and when he broke the kiss, he laughed against her cheek. He tugged her leg higher, changing the angle, and when his cock started striking _that_ spot, the one he’d found with his fingers, Helen couldn’t help but fall to pieces beneath him. She tipped her head back and whimpered and, as she did so, he scraped his teeth hard against the hollow of her throat.

“What is it that you do to me, Helen?” he asked and it was harsh and unraveled in a way she’d never heard James Watson before. She slid her hand down his back and cupped his bottom, bringing him that much more flush to her, and apparently that was enough to shatter his control. His thrusts got erratic, haphazard, and he finished in her instead of pulling out (which would have been prudent, of course, but when was sex ever prudent?). She was panting heavily and so was he and she almost didn’t catch the words he whispered against her throat.

“I do love you, Helen. I always have.”

Helen bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Her emotions were all tangled and she couldn’t sort what was true love, what was lust and what was simply hormones so she settled for toying with his hair in lieu of saying anything, just offering what affection she could without exposing her heart to a potential hurt.

It was only later, when James had fallen asleep with one arm draped around her and tugging her back to his chest that Helen dared say anything about what she was thinking or feeling and she thought, perhaps, the dark and the quiet made her bold.

“I love you, too. I have for a while.”


	7. Chapter 7

When Helen next awoke, James was pressed up against her back, warm and solid, and his hand had drifted up to cup her breast. She was only partially awake but when he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, she arched against him and let out a soft sigh. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her like this and James was an expert, it seemed. Helen wondered what had taken her so long to give into his advances if giving in felt this good but she imagined, come morning light, she would have more clarity.

For the moment, the world had narrowed to his clever fingers and the fact that his other hand had slipped down her stomach to part the curls between her thighs. She was slick there already and Helen wondered if James thought her the worst kind of base for being so easily aroused. Perhaps not, he hadn’t seemed annoyed in the slightest the night before, but Helen did wonder. He kissed a slow line down her neck and drifted back up to her ear and when he spoke, it shot through her like lightning.

“I want you, Helen,” he murmured, shifting his hips so his cock pressed between her thighs at her entrance. She hadn’t considered this position before but she supposed, in the grand scheme of things, if their bodies could fit together and she felt good, it hardly mattered. Her “yes,” was little more than a whispered sigh and she pushed her thigh forward as he slid inside slow and easy. She tilted her head so James could access her neck more easily and he licked, nipped and sucked along it while his fingers slipped and slid against her clitoris. It felt _so_ bloody good and it wasn’t long before Helen was crying out, nearly sobbing with how easily the release came after years of nothing.

James arched into her one last time before finishing and held her close, lips kissing lightly over her sleep-mussed hair. It had been sweet and easy, this, and Helen wondered if that set a precedent for the future. She found that as complicated as it might become, she hoped it would, and when he shifted his hips to slide out of her, she turned so that she was facing him in his arms. 

“Good morning, darling.”

It was strange the way those simple words shot straight through to the core of her and while Helen had known James for a long while and had his acute gaze turned on her more than once, it seemed different this time. This time, with the knowledge that he loved her, it felt more like coming home and finding solace than being scrutinized, like she never had to explain herself or be anything but Helen in his arms. No Dr. Magnus, no brilliant scientist or award-winning surgeon - simply Helen. It was a heady feeling.

“Good morning. I suspect it may be late morning, if not afternoon, I feel like I’ve slept for ages.” James laughed warmly and kissed her, a slow, unhurried process that was quite possibly the most thorough kiss Helen had ever received. She had never really kissed much just for the sake of kissing, she’d always pushed John for more and more in their sexual relationship and had always been the aggressor at first and in a way, it was very nice to be seduced and pursued. It made her feel desirable in a way that little else had for the past few years.

“Afternoon, I’d guess, from the way the light’s pooling from beneath the drapes. Shall I ring housekeeping to bring you up a bath?” It was just the kind of thoughtful thing that was perfectly and indescribably James and Helen couldn’t help but smile as she nodded in reply. A warm bath would feel nice after stretching muscles long left unused and any shyness she might have had about James seeing her in such a state should be erased after making love with him twice but time would have to tell. Twice, in less than a day. It was positively scandalous.

While James dressed and went downstairs to make his requests (a telegram, her bath and something else Helen simply didn’t catch), Helen dressed in a silk dressing gown and settled on the edge of the bed. They’d turned, she and James, and she couldn’t help but be pleased about it even if it was folly. He loved her and while she had trouble admitting she loved him where he could hear, she _did_ love him. In a way, she always had, and while it had originally simply been the sweet love of friendship now it was something deeper and more passionate.

Her relationship with John had been the rush of first love coupled with an explosiveness that Helen had never really seen or had with another person. John was volatile even when things had been good between them and in a way, she would always be drawn to him. They were like opposing poles in that way, antagonistic now but no less linked than when they’d been joined as one and she suspected that John Druitt would always have a hold on at least a small part of her heart. Once, she had suspected he would always have her whole heart but now...

Now, that had changed. Falling in love with James had hardly been expected and yet, there had been signs all along. In the days when John had first started killing, when he’d first hurt her, James had always been there as an ever-present pillar of support and that dear friendship had deepened and blossomed into passion so slowly that Helen could not pinpoint the exact moment she started seeing a lover instead of her best friend. Dreams that had once been filled with John’s gray-blue eyes and low voice now were replaced with sparkling hazel and a warm laugh.

Helen was so lost in her own thoughts that when she heard a rap at the door it startled her. She pulled the dressing gown closed and stood up straight. It was the maid with the bath and, apparently, James in tow. He pressed another few coins into the girl’s hand and said something that made her blush before pushing the door shut and turning to face Helen once more.

Long ago, when she and John had first begun, Helen had often stayed in the room while he took a bath. John had never been shy about such things and actually rather liked having Helen stay and talk instead of taking her leave of him but the situation had never exactly been reversed. Now, of course, it would simply be silly to ask James to leave the room when he’d seen her naked and flushed with passion. Nothing to do but press on, she supposed, and she unbelted the robe she wore and let it fall from her shoulders before slipping into the tub.

“Surely you’re not that pink from just the water. It’s hot, but not that hot,” James said, dragging a chair over to sit next to the bath. He slid his fingers through the water and grinned wickedly, which caused Helen’s mouth to turn down into a frown. Oh, honestly. Must he always make a _point_ of such things? It was enough that she was even conceding to do this in front of him and to cover her irritation about it, she nodded toward the washstand at the other end of the room.

“Soap, please? If you insist on staying, I insist you be useful. I don’t fancy getting up just to get soap. I’ll need a cloth, too.”

James got up to fetch the soap and cloth and knelt down at the end of the tub, behind her head, instead of taking the chair again. Helen arched a brow, unsure exactly what he was getting at, when he dipped the cloth and the cake of soap into the water to lather before running it gently along the line of her collarbones. It was something she’d never even imagined before, someone bathing her, and somehow it felt even more intimate than making love this morning and the evening before. Dear God.

“I’ve thought about this, you know. Sharing these intimacies,” James said softly, his hand slipping beneath the waterline to soap her breasts. He took his time with it, more time than she would ever take bathing, and Helen was fairly certain that teasing her nipples to taut peaks with his fingers was really not a necessary part of the bathing process. It felt wonderful, though, and she merely sighed and let him do it. 

James stole a kiss off the slope of her neck as his hands slid lower, one cupping her breast and the other sliding between her thighs. Instead of bringing her off easily like he had earlier, this was a slow and maddening tease, fingers fluttering and never giving her enough pressure to actually bring her over the edge. Helen arched up and twisted, seeking that pleasure, and sloshed water over the sides of the tub in the process.

“James, _please_! I beg you, please?”

He laughed just against her ear and angled long fingers to enter her while his thumb still rolled and played over her clitoris. He twisted them in such a way that made Helen see stars and she arched one last time, coming, and the only sounds in the room were her harsh breathing and the sweet words that James was whispering against her skin. She had never imagined it could be like this again with someone, especially not James, and her head was spinning from the the rapid changes of the last day or so.

“Tell me you love me, Helen,” he said finally, drawing his hand away and offering it to help her stand. Helen didn’t respond, too shocked he’d asked her so boldly and too scared to give the words back when it might change everything. Giving him her body had come naturally enough and she was just now getting comfortable with it; giving him her heart would take time yet. She had to wonder if he’d heard her confession in the dark, though, and was grateful he hadn’t pressed the issue further.

It was only after James had dried her off and helped her back into her corset, petticoats and a fresh dress that Helen felt like she could say anything. She needed the armor of her clothes and her honor to be able to address something this important and she waited until her back was turned to him and she was finishing the arduous process of pinning up and smoothing down her unruly curls to say anything back.

“I don’t want to lose you, James. Please don’t...please don’t force me to say this. I don’t want you to change. Everything I touch turns to poison. Don’t let me do that to you too.”

Helen’s heart caught in her throat for a moment when she heard his footsteps but they were coming toward her, not away, and James wrapped his arms around her from behind. Hers were still up, fooling with her hair, but when it was evident he didn’t intend to release her, she lowered them and laid them against his where they laid against her waist. James’ lips brushed softly against her temple and his voice was low, soft and full of emotion.

“My darling. My sweet Helen. Nothing is changing except for the better and if you cannot give me the words today, I don’t need them. The last thing I want is to pressure you when so many have forced your hand, have twisted your will. Those words are meant to be a gift, not a bargaining chip, and I apologize. I merely...I don’t want to be his replacement. Please try to keep that in mind.”

Helen didn’t reply, too overcome with emotion, but merely relaxed in his hold so that perhaps without the words he would still know that she needed him and, by extension, this, even if she didn’t know how to ask.


	8. Chapter 8

Things were a bit tense as Helen waited for James to dress and they both went down to breakfast. It wasn’t so frosty that anyone assumed the worst, no, but it wasn’t the hazy sweetness of the evening before and Helen wondered if it would get better. They’d broken their considerable sexual tension, yes, but there was still the matter of James loving her and Helen being utterly incapable of saying it back.

She wanted to blame that on John and, perhaps, another man might have let her. John Druitt had loved her and tossed her out like so much rubbish and betrayed her in ways that no person had before or since. He’d taken her love, pure and sweet and burning bright for him and twisted it so she’d do things for him and on his behalf that were utterly deplorable. She’d lied about his whereabouts. She’d taken him into his bed, both willingly and less than willingly, when he was covered in blood and the stink of alcohol. She hadn’t asked. She hadn’t wanted to know.

But, in the end, it was her own fear that kept her from saying it. She’d had trouble with John, even, and it all boiled down to Helen’s own reticence in being someone else’s property, in being a woman that society wanted instead of the woman _she_ wanted to be. She thought, perhaps, if she could simply tell James that he might understand and not pressure her nearly so much. Perhaps. He was still a traditional man, deep down, and he might not take terribly kindly to his mistress wanting to retain her independence instead of being kept or, worse, becoming his wife. Helen was absolutely certain she wasn’t ready to be anyone’s wife, even James’.

While she was busy musing over the state of things or, more accurately, the state of disarray her life was in, James himself was busy with several newspapers. He pointed out an article in one and, as he did so, a bit of cream from his tea slid from his lips and stuck in his beard. It was absolutely automatic for Helen to reach over and clean it off with her handkerchief, earning an amused smirk from James and a hot blush for her own part. Honestly.

“Feeling quite domestic this morning, aren’t you? Don’t worry, it’s becoming. Anyway, this shows that the Earl’s estate was for sale, of all things, and given it’s several months old, I don’t think his finances were as good as previously thought. Or, rather, he wanted more of his income to be liquid. Perhaps to raise his chances at the hazard table, you think? Or fund his whores? No matter. Seems the estate was named in the now-missing will. It’s taken care of by a cousin of his. Shall we go out there, you think? Nose around?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Next time, I’ll let you look like a fool in front of everyone,” Helen said sharply, but nodded all the same. It would likely do some good to poke around the country estate and see if they could find anything else that would indicate why the Earl suddenly wanted to move all his money to London. It was the fashion to keep a country estate anyway, in addition to the London house, not sell off to move to London. Strange indeed and perhaps tidings of something more foul.

James managed to be something approaching discreet in the carriage, his only concession to the evening before the fact that he seemed to want to hold her hand. While Helen was slightly annoyed that he’d called out her behavior at breakfast, it wasn’t so annoyed that she didn’t want the affection and after a few moments of stony silence, she slid her hand into his and squeezed. It felt nice, even this simple contact, and in some ways it was better than the intimacy they’d had the night before. This was something she’d missed, simply being important to another person, and she wondered if she might be able to have that without expressing her incredibly complicated feelings. She hoped that she could.

The estate itself was large and run by a caretaker, a cousin by the name of Crewe, which immediately brought to mind Nikola’s newest paramour, the Lady Evelyn. It turned out, as those things often do, that the Lady Evelyn was, in fact, the well-kept wife of the castellan, as it were. Helen had to wonder if the man knew he was cuckolded but decided that if he didn’t, it wasn’t her place to tell him. Nor James, either, and she hoped that her sharp look quelled the words on his lips when his eyebrow arched; she almost had to wonder if the Source blood didn’t give her a strange sort of precognizance when it came to James Watson. It had proven useful, at least, for keeping them from getting embarrassed.

“So who does the estate fall to, then? The Earl had no children.” Crewe mopped his face with a handkerchief and shrugged. Since the Earl hadn’t had a chance to make a will, his accounts lay in escrow and nobody could touch them. It was a legal entanglement for solicitors, though, and not for Helen to sort out. Or, perhaps, if they followed the money they’d end up finding the culprit. It usually turned out that way.

It also turned out that Crewe wasn’t terribly interested in discussing his cousin’s affairs and had other, pressing matters to attend to. Including looking in on a well-appointed apiary, the likes of which Helen hadn’t actually seen outside of scientific research. She had no real fear of bees, per se, but she didn’t like them and she found herself a bit on edge as they walked the rows between the hives, fearing one of them might crawl down her gown and sting her. James didn’t seem affected, though, and she tried desperately to focus on what he was saying.

“I’d hoped it would be left to me,” Crewe said cryptically, pulling a comb out of one of the hives and offering it to Helen and James. Helen shook her head, still a bit distracted by the bees themselves, but James took a bit of the comb and sucked thoughtfully at the honey. He was thinking about _something_ and while that usually ended in a positive result, Helen had to wonder why he was pressing Crewe, of all people. Did he even have a motive to see his cousin dead? Surely a man like that would want to be in London with his wife and not managing his wealthy cousin’s accounts.

Helen decided she’d leave the deduction to James and glanced, instead, at a low bush surrounding the hive. This hive was a bit secluded from the others and all around were the same plants. Monofloral honey, of course, which sold better and, arguably, tasted better than that which was a mix of more than one sort of flower. Helen knelt next to the plant, working the leaves in her hands, and frowned as she tried to identify it. Nigel was always better at botany than she. There were several dark berries, though, and Helen paled as she recognized them: Deadly Nightshade.

“James...stop, it’s poison! He’s tried to poison us!” Helen barely had a chance to get the words out before there was a shot and James fell, blood blooming and welling against the crisp white of his shirt. Helen didn’t come anywhere utterly helpless, though, and she thanked God that she’d been taught the rudiments of hand to hand combat by the rest of the Five because she was able to take Crewe by surprise and tackle him directly into one of the Nightshade bushes.

“Why...you’ll tell me why. You’ll do it now because if he dies, you’ve no chance of living.” Any confessions would have to be bloody quick, though, because James was already convulsing from the combined effects of the gunshot and the Nightshade and Helen was grateful, at least, that the poison would numb the pain. She still needed to do something about the poison, of course, but it might take a while given James hadn’t eaten terribly much. She could hope. She _had_ to hope.

“Mistress. London. Tore up his will and left it all to her after all I’ve done for him.” The mistress at the gentleman’s club, then, and that explained why he’d wanted to sell his estates and move all his money to London. A few more well-intentioned presses of her bootheel against his neck got Crewe to provide more details, how he’d positioned himself to inherit the estate and, eventually, the Earl’s title only to be afraid that the mistress would bear a child and be named heir instead. He’d conspired with the Earl’s solicitor and preyed upon his wife’s expensive tastes to get the honey to the Earl; she’d gone to beg money of him for her own fripperies and that certainly explained why Crewe had turned a blind eye. He’d used her for his own gains.

Disgusted, Helen deftly tied him with James’ cravat and shirt and left him there, hog-tied, until she could find someone to carry him to the local authorities. The Yard wouldn’t be pleased, of course, but the Yard could sod off. She also sent a boy after the local doctor, too, to bring her everything she’d need to dig out the bullet and, hopefully, cure the worst of the poisoning. James’ breathing was labored and it was all she could do to get him into the house with the help of two stablehands.

Once he was safely ensconced in the master bedroom, Helen set to work on the delicate task of digging out the bullet and keeping vigil as she tried to purge the poison. Ipecac was her best option, unfortunately, mixed with a tincture of charcoal to hopefully soak up the worst of it. She hated every moment of it, seeing James ill, and when he’d finally seemed to calm part of the way through the night, she brushed her hand against his forehead, pushing back a sweat-damp lock of hair.

“Darling, you’ve got to come through this. I never...I’m not so terribly good at expressing how I feel and I hated being put on the spot but I shouldn’t have let my pride and my fear stand in the way of telling you how I felt. I love you, James, and I have...I have to have more time to tell you. I want you to know. I want you to share that with me, I do, and I know you’re stubborn. I know you want to come through. Just...don’t you dare do this to me. Don’t you dare.”

Helen waited for a moment, the room eerily quiet aside from James’ labored breathing and, crushed that he hadn’t appealed to her tantrum for him to simply _wake up_ , finally let her own emotions crest and break into the tears she’d been keeping back since she’d first realized he’d been poisoned. She kept his hand in hers and squeezed lightly, gasping when it seemed, albeit fleeting, that he squeezed back.

Hope, it seemed, had not abandoned her.


End file.
